‘Dec. 15, 1880.—Dear Mr. Clark’s return has caused so much joy. The Native Christians have had a loving address to him printed in letters of gold. I fancy that a general feeling is, “Now there is a hand on the reins.” ... Mr. Clark is an experienced and skilful driver. True, he is very weak, but he brings brains, and a power of organisation. If he were a prisoner to his room he might be very valuable still.... He was sadly missed....’
‘Dec. 17.—Please, love, make no plans for bringing ladies to Batala. It is so awkward to me to have to explain to nice enthusiastic ladies that they cannot come. This is not a place except for elderly or married ladies. If Mera Bhatija would bring out a nice wife, it would give much pleasure; at present plans and propositions only—I must not say burden me—but they do not help me. I do very well as I am; I have had, through God’s goodness, a happy year; and if I were to be ill, I would rather be doctored by our Sikh, and nursed by our Natives. As for visitors, we have hardly any except in the cooler weather; and a little packing then does no harm.’
Of the following extracts to Mrs. E——, only two of which are fully dated, all probably belong to about this period:—
‘July 23.—I saw to-day a sight which perhaps never met your eyes in India, and which I never wish to see again; though it was not without something of melancholy beauty. On Sunday towards dusk I was with some of the boys, and they called out “Locusts!” I looked up into the sky, and saw what my old eyes would have considered harmless clouds high above me; but the young eyes must have detected the motion of countless wings. To-day there was no possibility of mistake. I was in a Zenana, in the full light of day, gazing up at myriads and myriads,—dark against white clouds, light against the blue sky,—passing over Batala. They looked to me like God’s terrible army; so strong; so vigorous; not one amongst the millions appeared to be weary; not one did I see drop down as if faint from long flight. They flew as if they had a purpose; our fair green fields did not appear to tempt the destroyers,—only I saw a comparatively small number in one,—but they were clearly intent on going somewhere else. Alas for the land where they alight! A Native told me that they would probably come back again. How helpless is man against such a foe! We can only ask for mercy, as Pharaoh did.’
‘Kangra, Aug. 21.—I paid a visit to Kangra fort yesterday; a grand picturesque place, holding a commanding position. The officer in command had prepared tea and cake for me, and the dear kind soldiers lemonade, so I was treated with much hospitality. They do not often see a lady up there. I have often thought of your dear M.’s words about the soldiers, and her wondering at my feeling shy with them. They are some of the pleasantest people in the world to have to do with.... While I was taking tea with the Commander, the soldiers were concocting a letter to say that they had collected ten rupees to pay my expenses, and hoped that I would soon come again. I certainly do not want their money, poor dear fellows; and I mean to go again on Monday. Soldiers’ money seems to jump out of their purses of its own accord. In this the Natives are far behind them. Four soldiers—I think in Afghanistan—are uniting to support a little girl at the Amritsar Orphanage. They are charmed with the idea. I had nothing to do with it, except giving the Superintendent’s address. I have over and over again received help for the Mission from English soldiers, and I never ask them for it. Fine fellows!—and to think what they have to suffer!’
‘Batala, Oct. 1, 1880.—I was amused to-day at what my kahar called out. I am quite accustomed, as I am borne along in my little duli, to hear my bearers shout, “Posh! posh!” (Hide! hide!), which is absurd enough, as if all must flee from my approach. But to-day was too absurd. I was, according to custom, walking to the city, with my kahars carrying my duli behind. There was a rider in front, mounted on a horse inclined to back. My attentive kahar, careful that the animal should not hurt me, cried out, “Save the horse!”—as if, instead of its kicking me, the danger was that a mild old lady approaching on foot should demolish the unfortunate animal!’
‘Batala, Jan. 31, 1881.—As I was engaged yesterday with a party of our boys, I was interrupted by hearing that my poor dear Ayah had been stung—bitten, as the people incorrectly say—by a scorpion. I thought what could be done. I had happily by me some ipecacuanha, sent to me in 1879 by my dear kind sister, Laura, in case of such an emergency, and also pain-killer, which she forwarded to me more recently. Armed with these and a bit of tape, probably her present also, I hastened to the compound, and found my Ayah crying with the violent pain. She had already sucked the poor finger. I tied my tape round it, anointed it with a mixture of ipecacuanha and pain-killer, and gave some of the latter also internally. My Hannah appeared to derive some relief, but had much pain in the night. To-day, however, she is much better. I have never seen either scorpion or centipede in Batala; but then my long staircase would present a formidable difficulty to such reptiles.’
About this time, hearing the boys one day singing The Vicar of Bray, Miss Tucker wrote fresh words to suit the old tune, and taught them to her young companions. The second verse was curiously characteristic of herself.
‘The rushing torrent bears along
The straw on its surface thrown, Sir;